


Struggle or The Lack Thereof

by Istalindir



Category: Original Work
Genre: Demonic Possession, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 06:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11845590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Istalindir/pseuds/Istalindir
Summary: "She thinks she's meant to be fighting.At least that's what the thing that bursts into her head seems to expect."





	Struggle or The Lack Thereof

She thinks she's meant to be fighting.

At least that's what the thing that bursts into her head seems to expect. The violence of its entry steals her breath and the pain that follows is paralyzing. She folds, mentally and physically, under the unexpected attack. 

She doesn't struggle. Oh, her body writhes in a useless attempt to escape the agony but she offers not even the most token of protests toward the thing that is pushing its way inside her head. The pain now is such that she cringes from even the thought of what she would know if she attempted to waylay the thing. And, if she were being completely honest, she's always been a coward. 

Still the invasion hurts.

Thankfully, the pain cuts out almost as abruptly as it had begun. She hovers at the edge of consciousness, awaiting events. The thing that attacked her begins to settle itself inside her mind so efficiently that even if she had been fighting she doubts much good would come of it. When the thing seems fully seated there is a second of stillness before all her senses are snatched away from her.

She cannot scream because she has no mouth but what follows is nothing less than pure terror. She doesn't fight, wouldn't know where to even begin had she the thoughts to spare. She strains to see, to hear, to feel anything. 

But, there is nothing. 

Nothing at all.

Now she feels tired, fragile and very calm. She welcomes the sensation as familiar, as right. Strong emotion has always left her thus slipping through her fingers like sand. 

No longer blinded by fear she comes to the realization that she doesn't need to feel, or see, or hear. There is no sense of her body's need here. 

That is, well... nice.

Her body had, more often than not, felt like some bad-tempered animal she'd been forced to care for. Nothing she had ever asked for but nothing she could be rid of. 

Freedom from its constant demands and all-encompassing mass is really rather wonderful. She settles contentedly into the nothingness, slowly easing into something that is almost sleep. 

A time uncounted passes before she is pulled from that restful state. The thing that had attacked her has turned its attention towards her. While she cannot see there is a sense wholly new and different that informs her of its scrutiny. Abruptly, the thing prods her hard and sharp as a child might prod a dead thing. 

She doesn't know what it wants but she recoils from the pain of its touch. While the feeling is not quite pain as she remembers, the sensation is similar enough to warrant a parallel. All her withdrawal elicits is another prod. 

A question is asked. She doesn't know what the question is; isn't sure she'd understand even if there were words, all she knows is a question was asked. A pause before the other jabs at her again.

Her small dark world is consumed in the not-quite pain. There is no thought. Only the sensation that rolls over and over her. She is pinned with it, caught like a rat in a trap.

Her relief is a heady thing when the thing finally withdraws its' touch. The pain dissipates as quickly as it had appeared. She pulls her sense of self close around her in the darkness not wishing to draw back its notice.

It seems work. The thing turns its attention out and away from her. She seizes this opportunity to study the thing. She is only able to glean that this other inside her is vast. She has some vague sense of it stretching out far beyond her. The whole of itself quite simply too large to fit even a fraction of that self inside the tiny confines of her head. 

Attempting to gain more information from this thing inside her seems pointless and quite possibly dangerous. So, she allows the darkness to soothe her back into her almost sleep. 

Time blurs into a thing without meaning. 

When her guest turns its attention on her again she doesn't realize until the first harsh touch. She can feel the weight of its curiosity and quietly resigns herself to an unpleasant future.

And what follows is unpleasant. There is pain and questions in words she doesn't understand. She offers thoughts and memories. Little things because she doesn't know what it wants. Doesn't know why it doesn't just take what it wants. 

For a while, a long while she thinks, this is her world.

When the pain stops she is pleased but confused. The questions, however, continue so she keeps offering up bits of herself. Happy memories and sad ones. The feel of quiet contentment and the overwhelming grind of silence so loud it hurts. 

She gives the other these things because it still questions. The more she offers the closer the thing seems to grow until it is coiled all around her. She and it are still separate but the vastness of it is everywhere. There is no pain, even when its' edges brush hers. She couldn’t call this affection but it is… something. 

She accepts this new event. Content here where needs are a distant memory. The silence never grows sharp edged and dangerous. Which is more than she has ever dared hope for. She thinks this place might be as close to perfection as she will ever know. So, with the dark of the thing all around her, she drifts.


End file.
